Thief

Her soles are creased with frost, Her movements ever so silent as she weaves her way through the trees. The house is bright up ahead, But she remains a dark omen, Dreadfully stepping closer, And closer, To what might have once been happiness. His hands are winter bitten and tipped with red, His voice is snapped in two as he coos to the child. The house is warm by the fire, But the body he cradles is cold, Unmoving in his large arms. Its crying ceased hours ago, But still he holds it. Her delicate fingers shake as she pushes through the wooden door, Her tear stained eyes search for the familiar bed where she once laid. The child is swathed in cloth, But it's fate had already been written in chapped purple lips, Soft and supple no more. The mans weeping has only just begun, For he knows that she comes. His grip tightens as he tries to stop the shaking, His wrinkled hands like the roots of a tree around the child. The child. For that is what she comes for, And what he so desperately clings too. She laments as she lifts it from his arms, And he bows his head down as they leave together.